


And they were cell-mates

by trashgoblinwizardparty



Series: October 2019 Flash Prompt Fest [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, Flashbacks, Light Bondage, M/M, Prison Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 23:41:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21187928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashgoblinwizardparty/pseuds/trashgoblinwizardparty
Summary: Harry Potter is cornered at a Ministry event and has to think fast (while having a flashback).





	And they were cell-mates

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [limeta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/limeta/pseuds/limeta) in the [October_Flash_Fest_Part_Two](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/October_Flash_Fest_Part_Two) collection. 

> **Prompt:**
> 
> Whenever someone asks Harry where he knows Tom Riddle from all that comes to mind is saying: College roommate.
> 
> Because being prison cellmates is much worse.
> 
> Unbetaed! Read at your own risk!

“So how do you know Tom?”  


Harry nearly spat out his wine for the second time that night.

He turned to look at the man addressing him—older, paunchy, with a magnificent walrus mustache and a cunning air masked by a veneer of joviality. Harry wracked his brain. Horace Slughorn, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic.  


Harry somehow managed a polite smile and, through sheer force of will, kept his eyes from straying to Tom Riddle, Head Auror.  


Of course Slughorn would have seen Harry’s brief lapse of composure upon seeing Tom here, at a Ministry event, and finding out Tom Riddle had indeed made quite a name for himself in the time Harry had been out of the country. That’s what Slughorn does—he’s paid to  _ notice _ things.  


Harry swallowed his wine with some difficulty, trying to formulate a response. 

* * *

_ Hands in the dark, roaming over Harry’s overheated flesh, tracing along every rib, every scar. Hands sliding down his back and then around to his front, ghosting lightly over the bulge in Harry’s Azkaban-issue trousers. _

_ Harry’s wrists bound to the bars of the cell by an illegal length of twine—probably smuggled in by Avery—and his face pressed into those very same bars. _

_ His legs shaking as Tom paints himself flush against Harry’s back, grinding his cock into the cleft of Harry’s arse. A leg presses in between Harry’s thighs, forcing them apart. One hand snakes its way under the waistband of Harry’s trousers, fingers tangling in the coarse hair at the base of his cock, not quite touching. The other hand slides up up over his jaw and slips two fingers between his lips. Harry moans, allowing Tom to fill his mouth. Fingers are not as satisfying as a thick cock, but Harry slurps greedily anyway.  
_

_ Tom, whispering promises directly into Harry’s ear: “I’m going to fuck you over and over until you can’t stand, can’t speak, can’t even think. I’ll leave you tied to the bars and covered in my come for the guards to discover on their morning rounds.” Tom’s fingers finally, finally curl around Harry’s aching cock and squeeze once, possessive. “This belongs to me,” he says. “Your arse belongs to me. Your life belongs to me.”  
_

_ Harry can only moan in response, trying to take Tom’s fingers deeper into his mouth.  
_

_ He’s breathing hard through his nose, wanton, the way he can only get after lights out, when he can pretend no one else can see. Agonizing soft touches grazing the very base of his cock, punctuated by the sharpness of teeth in the junction of his neck and shoulder, claiming, marking. The thin shirts they’re allowed won’t cover the bruise—Tom is making good on his promise—marking him as his, for all the world to see.  
_

_ Harry lets out a humiliating whine as the fingers leave his mouth empty. He presses his burning face against the coolness of the bars and waits, panting. Tom’s leg moves from between his thighs, leaving Harry feeling unsupported and adrift without an anchor.  
_

_ A rustle of cloth and a sudden chill over his heated flesh as his trousers are yanked downwards to puddle at his feet.  
_

_ Tom’s hands on Harry’s naked hips, gripping, bruising, maneuvering him into place. There’s a strain on Harry’s shoulders as he’s pulled backwards and bent over further, while his wrists are still bound in place to the bars above his head. The burn of stretching muscles only adds another dimension to the experience. There’s a popping sound of a cork coming free from a potion bottle—likely more contraband courtesy of Avery—and then cold, slick fingers gliding along his arse.  
_

_ Harry tries to still himself, if he’s too overeager, Tom won’t let him come. He’s learned that the hard way. Tom pushes a finger into Harry with agonizing slowness, and Harry’s legs shake from the strain of his position. Tom’s finger unerringly finds its mark, and Harry’s legs shake from something else. Warmth radiates from his very core in a slow-building wave, rippling like the surface of a pond from a thrown pebble.  
_

_ Behind him, Tom’s breathing is harsh, and Harry can only imagine what he looks like: his perfect hair disheveled, his dark eyes made darker still with lust.  
_

_ More soft rustling of cloth can be heard, and then something much thicker than a finger is pressing hot and insistent against his arsehole. Harry braces himself as Tom pushes in with agonizing slowness. Harry pants, trying to breathe through the burning stretch, through the feeling of being inexorably filled.  
_

_ Tom Riddle will not stop until he gets what he wants, whether it be money, notoriety, or Harry’s arse.  
_

_ Tom bottoms out, finally, and rolls his hips, once, twice, before setting a punishing pace. Harry hangs on, grasping at the bars of their shared cell with sweaty fingers, and the twine cuts into his wrists. His own neglected cock is hard and drooling precome onto the stone floor. Harsh breathing and the slap of skin fills the room and echoes down the corridor. There is absolutely no doubt the other prisoners can hear, but they mercifully keep quiet tonight. A night off from their raucous hollering and filthy taunts is a welcome reprieve.  
_

_ Something in the air is different tonight. A sea-change. Harry has felt it all day without realizing, but now he can sense it in Tom’s frantic thrusts and heavy breathing. Tom’s hand twists into Harry’s hair and pulls, brutally forcing Harry to arch his back as Tom pounds relentlessly into him.  
_

_ Harry’s climax takes him by surprise, and he cries out as he spills across the bars of the cell.  
_

_ Tom’s hand leaves Harry’s hair and both arms wrap tight around his chest, leaving a smear of lube on his skin. Tom drives in one last time, and Harry can feel the hot rush as Tom spills inside him, can feel Tom’s body shudder through his own orgasm.  
_

_ They stay like that for a few moments, an eternity, while they both catch their breath. Tom’s nose is pressed into the back of Harry’s neck, and there’s a soft touch of lips upon the knob of Harry’s spine that is so gentle, so fleeting that he thinks he must’ve imagined it.  
_

_ Tom is not gentle. Tom does not do gentle.  
_

_ But then: “We’re getting out. Tomorrow night. Be ready. Do everything I say. Do not speak. Just nod if you understand,” Tom whispers lowly into Harry’s ear.  
_

_ Harry nods. _

* * *

“We were roommates in University,” Harry said, taking another sip of wine.  


Slughorn favors him with a shrewd look, but seems to accept that response, and begins to natter on about inane, trivial things.  


Harry tunes him out, smiling faintly and nodding and “hmm”-ing where appropriate.  


Across the room, Tom Riddle’s dark eyes find Harry. The weight of Tom’s gaze is nearly palpable, settling like a weight across Harry’s shoulders.  


Harry finishes his wine and sets the glass down on a passing serving tray as it floats by.  


“Terribly sorry, Undersecretary, but I really must excuse myself now,” he says, interrupting a long-winded bit of frivolous gossip.  


He leaves Slughorn behind as he winds his way around guests, muttering “sorry” and “excuse me” in his haste.  


A darkened corridor practically beckons, and Harry disappears with relief into the welcome embrace of shadow.  


He walks slow, deliberate, and soon, a shadow of a different sort embraces him from behind.  


“Welcome back, Harry.”  


Tom Riddle’s voice rolls velvet along Harry’s ear, and he gives in with a sigh. 

  
  



End file.
